When the Cedar Branches Sway
by Symbiotic Muse
Summary: Bella Swan doesn't realize when she arrives at the mysterious Seaton House that it's inhabited by Edward Cullen, a sinfully sexy recluse. While wildly attracted to the dangerous stranger, she's also determined to uncover the secrets of his past.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:_My words are like my own children. I nuture them with my love and support. Please don't kidnap them and raise them as your own. - me_

When the Ceder Branches Sway is based on a dream I had about the Iron and Wine song Belated Promise Ring, but with enough intertextuality to make it independent from itself.

Thank you to my beta's: edward's sanctuary and asterisk, I love you guys.

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**Prologue**

_**Edward**_

On nights like this, Edward Cullen wondered if Seaton House truly was haunted.

The power had gone out again and the cold October wind roared through the cracks in the window moldings to extinguish any unattended candles. At least, he presumed it was the wind.

Though cracking with rage in the stormy sky overhead, the thunder couldn't quite drown out the creaks of the old floorboards just above his head…as if someone were walking back and forth, up and down the second-floor corridor. Slowly, deliberately, with weary, fatalistic repetition.

Yet he was the only one in the place. And had been for months.

An hour ago, hearing loud banging coming from even farther above, he'd gone to the third floor to investigate. He'd found the previously locked doors to several of the former guest rooms mysteriously standing open. Inside them, each long not slept-in bed suddenly bore the rumpled indentation of a human form, as if several of the hotel's long departed guests had just awakened from their deep, restless sleep.

The keys to those rooms remained undisturbed, locked away. Both before he'd gone upstairs, and after he'd come back.

"And the air," he murmured. It tasted so strange—of cloves and citrus. Of secrets and age.

He was not a superstitious man. Yet in the three months he'd lived here—since inheriting the place from his uncle Aro and deciding it would provide the perfect location to recover from his injuries—he'd experienced things that made him wonder. Things that even made him doubt his own senses.

Objects moving from one spot to another. Scratches and whispery noises in the walls. Frigid air trickling in from nowhere as he prowled the house, unable to sleep, trying to walk off the pain. And those smells…

"It's the headaches," he muttered as he sat in his office that evening, working on his laptop for as long as its battery charge lasted. He'd become accustomed to the unreliable electrical service here on his stark, private mountain above the town of Trouble, Pennsylvania, and therefore had backups for his backups. Not only had he made sure he had extra battery packs, he'd even purchased a second computer. He always kept one fully charged in case he ran out of power during the small number of productive hours he managed to find each day. And so he would never run the risk of an unexpected power outage frying his hard drive—causing him to lose the few precious pages he'd been able to eke out since returning to work.

He could have used the generator out back, but on the two occasions he'd tried it, the thing had caused the lights in the old hotel to surge and ebb. On the first occasion, he'd been struck by the strange rhythm of it—a steady pulse—as though the building itself had a giant beating heart hidden somewhere in its depths.

Fanciful…ridiculous. In actuality, he was quite sure the wiring in the hundred-year-old mansion simply disliked such a modern intervention and chose to thwart it.

His own thoughts startled him. When , he wondered, had he begun to think of Seaton House as a living entity, capable of choice…of vengeance?

Lifting his fingers from his keys, he brought his hands to his face and rubbed wearily at his temples. Because his own pulse had suddenly begun to beat harder. A subtle increase in pressure instantly had him on alert. "No. Not tonight," he said with a groan as he lifted the computer from his lap and set it on the coffee table.

Shifting around on the tired leather couch, Edward lay back, leaning his head against the arm and closing his eyes. He needed to relax. To let go of his anger and his concern that it was starting all over again.

Hopefully the subtle throbbing meant nothing. It would pass. It had to pass.

The doctors had said the migraines would eventually go away, as, hopefully, would the memories of what had happened that June night in Charleston. Since the pain was often severe, he sincerely hoped the experts were right.

But in his darkest nighttime hours, when the cloying weight of the hotel and the vivid images in his brain pressed down on him with unbearable pressure, he knew he'd rather live with the headaches than with the memories. If he could banish one or the other forever, he would choose to endure the physical agony and end the still-frame snapshots of memory that tormented him.

The images replayed night after night in his head like a never-ending horror movie. The fear. The pain. The screams. The blood.

The crushed and broken body.

He tried deep-breathing and focused relaxation techniques. Clench, then release, he reminded himself. The fingers—tight, then limp. The wrists—flaccid. Every muscle in the arm going slack, then the shoulders, the neck.

Calm. Breathe. Float over the waves of memory crashing in your skull rather than letting them wash over you .

Amazingly it began to work. The pulse slowed. The throbbing dulled. Eventually, after a few long moments, he felt confident of his success in battling off one of the headaches that, at times, left him nearly incapacitated. So confident, he opened his eyes and slowly sat up, almost smiling at that small victory. One he hadn't even been able to imagine when last in the grip of the demonizing pain.

His triumph didn't last for long, because when he caught sight of his computer screen, he knew he had not won the battle at all. He'd merely fallen asleep again. Fallen into that strange place where his dreams and his memories met up and tortured him.

Shaking his head, Edward silently yelled at himself to wake up and end this nightmare. Yes, it wasonly a nightmare. It couldn't be real—he could not be seeing what he thought he was seeing.

On the laptop screen where only letters, words and paragraphs had existed a few minutes before, there was now one large, horrifying, bloody image. An image he saw in his mind every single day…but one he'd certainly never expected to see on his computer screen.

He reached toward the horrible picture, covering it with his palm, spreading his fingers apart in an effort to block it out of sight—out of existence. But despite the size of his hand, it could not hide everything. Especially not when each brutal detail was so very, very familiar.

"Wake up, man," he told himself. In his dream, he leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes as he felt that throbbing begin again.

Remembering his therapy, he counted backwards from ten, willing himself to rise toward consciousness as if ascending a long flight of stairs. Going from darkness into light. From nightmare into reality.

When he reached one, he slowly opened his eyes and looked around.

"Thank God," he murmured. Because on the screen in front of him he saw letters. And words. And paragraphs. "A dream. Just a dream," he whispered.

Then he saw something else and his heart clenched tight in his chest. Slowly fading from sight on the screen of his laptop was a shape…the shape of a hand.

His hand.

It hadn't been a dream. A hallucination? Christ, was he doomed to be reminded of his past by everything—even his computer, his only connection with the outside world?

He wouldn't be able to stand it. He couldn't live like this, with the pain and the solitude and the grief coming at him from every angle. He'd lose his mind, if he hadn't already.

Because, Edward knew he would go insane if everywhere he looked he saw the image of her .

The woman he'd killed.

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Intrigued?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

_**Bella**_

The next person who tells me how great it must be to have five older brothers is going to feel my fist in his or her face. Because, believe me, being the youngest child—and the only one without a penis—in a big Italian Catholic family from Chicago, I can personally attest to the fact that it bites.

I would have been better off being left as a baby on the doorstep of some nunnery in the mountains of Austria. At least I might have had a little action from a cute shepherd passing by with his herd once I grew up.

I'm definitely hotter than a sheep.

Bella Swan, that's me, the hotter-than-a-sheep girl. Yes, before you ask, I'm one of those Swans—the big family who owns that great pizza joint on Taylor Avenue. If you haven't heard of it, I'm sure you've at least heard of my brothers. Either because of the way they plowed across the football field at St. Raphael's or the way they plowed through every girl at St. Raphael's. Most of my friends included.

And yes, before you ask the next question, I have a dirty mind and a big mouth and I don't take much crap off anybody.

My brothers, however, still haven't gotten that through their thick skulls. They've been ordering me around, trying to control who I talk to, where I go, what I do and who I do, for my entire life. Tried being the key word there.

Wish I could say they'd failed completely. Unfortunately for me—and my sex life—they succeeded in keeping me about as celibate as a twenty-five-year-old grad student can be.

Oh, sure, I've snuck in a few affairs, but there aren't many men I meet who don't know—or know of —my family. And I swear, the big jerks are like bloodhounds. Because the minute I do find some guy who is mercifully ignorant about the thousand pounds of male aggression acting as the defensive line on my virtue, one of them finds out and scares the crap out of him.

I kid you not, when I started ninth grade, they put out the word that if their sister didn't graduate a virgin, they would ban every person from my high school from ever having another slice of my pop's famous deep dish pizza. Anyone from Chicago knows that's about as dire a threat as you can make.

Can you believe it worked? They had all my friends making sure my legs stayed shut, and their friends, too. Which really sucked since a lot of those guys were really hot. I ask you, what is the point of having older brothers if you don't even have the benefit of having a built-in supply of potential boyfriends?

Thank God I'd spent a college semester in an exchange program at New York University, where I'd met Eric. And Tyler. Then…umm…Mike. Man, had that guy had staying power, especially in comparison to the other twenty- and twenty-one-year-olds I dated.

I'd probably been thought of as the easiest exchange student NYU had ever known, but I knew I was potentially cramming a lifetime full of sex into those three months. Damned if I wasn't going to make the most of them.

Of course, from what I've learned about sex since that time, I know I didn't scratch the surface of what can be done. Big sigh, there.

No, I didn't learn about it firsthand. But having come home a sex maniac, then being forced to peek longingly over my big brothers' shoulders at any nice piece of male ass—never getting any of it—had left me a little frustrated. Frustrated enough to take things into my own hands. Literally. And since my imagination only went so far—pretty much meat and potatoes on the sex scale, me being the potatoes—I'd had to do some research.

I like research. I'm good at it. Good enough that I'm doing it to pay the bills while I finish my masters degree in journalism.

Solving puzzles and sticking my nose into other people's stories was something I'd excelled at since I was little and used to spy on my brothers and their girlfriends. What can I say? I love to know things. Not to exploit secrets—and I never resorted to blackmail. Well, okay, once in a while when Mark or Nick decapitated one of my stuffed toys or tied my Barbies to the tracks of their Lionel train set, I might have used my knowledge to my own advantage. Like, you know, to get them thunked in the head with a soup ladle by our mother. But not often.

Most of the time, I didn't even do anything with the things I figured out. I just like the process of following steps through to reach a conclusion. Seeing if the things I thought had happened really had happened.

For someone like me—who's been told I have a wild imagination—getting to that conclusion could be one heck of a ride. My oldest brother, Emmett, once commented that if I found a dollar on the pavement, I'd concoct an entire bank robbery scenario about the thieves who'd dropped it, rather than picking the damn thing up and buying a bunch of tooth-rotting candy like any normal kid would.

I guess he was right. Instead of the big picture, I sometimes tend to see the gargantuan one.

So having a little glimpse of sex, you can bet I'd built up in my mind just how good it could be. Hence my research into the subject. I was very thorough. Lord help me if Mama goes over to my apartment to "help" me while I'm out of town and decides to clean out my closet. If she sees my stash of sex toys and erotica, she's going to have a heart attack and think I'm a sex fiend.

I'm not. I'm just frustrated. If you hadn't been touched intimately by anyone other than the dressmaker who fitted you for your latest bridesmaid gown for the past few years, wouldn't you be?

Bridesmaid gowns. Getting quite a collection of those, I tell you. While I'm on the subject, does anyone in the world know why those things always look like fifties prom dresses worn by somebody named Peggy Sue or Bobbie Jean? Is there a law or something that says they have to be butt ugly?

Okay, back to the intimate touching. You should know, the dress-fitting thing wasn't as naughty as it sounds. The dressmaker was one of my sisters-in-law. And the only private part of my body she touched was my bra strap as she measured my chest size.

What was it? Mind your own business. That's a sore subject.

So anyway, yeah, take it from me, it's not easy bobbing around in a sea of testosterone just trying to keep your head above water. I've somehow managed it for twenty-five years now, but I realized a couple of months ago that if I didn't get away for a little while, I'd drown.

I probably could have gotten a job at the bottom rung of a paper after I graduated from college two years ago. But something held me back. Maybe the realization that I wasn't through learning. So after saving up money by working in the family pizzeria for a year, I went back to school and fell right back into the routine of losing myself in intricate stories that I—and only I—could decipher.

The family doesn't get me. Pop thought that when I worked at the restaurant, it meant I'd stay there full-time, which would have suited him fine. And Mama just wants me married and pregnant.

Uh…no. Not happening. Not anytime soon, at least.

That's why I decided long ago to get the hell out of Chicago for some much needed mental relaxation and, hopefully, physical stimulation. So I accepted my psychology professor's offer to become his research assistant for an out-of-town assignment. Which is why I'm in my little car—purchased with my own money, thank you very much; otherwise, I'd be driving a yacht-sized Cadillac bought by my father—chugging up a Pennsylvania mountain toward some place called Seaton House.

And that is why I'm about ready to pee my pants.

Because, to be perfectly honest, the first time I saw the pictures of that place, I was scared to death. I felt this weird chill run down my spine. I even caught myself turning into my Grandma Angelina, instinctively making the sign of the cross just like she did whenever one of her grandchildren made the mistake of cussing in front of her. Or criticizing Tony Bennett.

I never knew a building could look so menacing. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but it's true.

When I went on to read exactly what had happened in the mansion, which had been transformed into a hotel sometime in the 1930's, the chill had spread from my spine to every inch of my body. With its murderous history, Seaton House would have been terrifying, even if it had looked like Granny's frigging cottage in the woods. No vivid imagination required when it came to this place—its real history was quite dramatic enough.

"It's just a building," I whispered, needing to hear something over and above the wicked crash of thunder and the hammering of rain on the roof of the car.

I didn't grab the radio dial, however, and not only because the reception had fizzled out when I'd started slowly climbing up this mountain. I also didn't need the distraction.

For some reason that made me think of how I used to laugh at the way my dad would automatically reach out to turn the radio down when driving in a thunderstorm. Like he was saying, "Shh, I can't see with all that noise." Never got that.

Now I do. I needed every ounce of concentration to focus on the unexpected curves and the washed-out shoulders—guess they never heard of yellow hazard signs around here. If a deer decided to do a rain dance on the road in front of me, I'd be toast. I could easily picture my pretty little car and my pretty little self flying off the edge of a cliff and landing in the river about a thousand miles below.

"It's okay," I whispered again, "almost there, almost there."

After nine hours in the car, I damn well should be almost there. That useless Internet map I'd dug up had predicted six or seven hours on the road. Of course, it couldn't have predicted the wicked storm that had been dumping water by the trailer load on my windshield since I hit the Pennsylvania line. Or the mountain that seemed to go straight up at a ninety-degree angle.

Or the vision of hell waiting for me at the top of that mountain, which was probably why my foot had been much more on the feather side of the scale than the lead one with every additional foot of altitude.

"Don't be a chicken," I told myself, thinking of how utterly humiliating it would be if Mark or Nick—the twins, who were the next up from me in family hierarchy—found out I was scared of some old house. Just because it looked like something out of a Wes Craven movie. Well, that and because a convicted serial killer—James Kilpatrick—had lived there in the 1930s. Turning his mansion into an exclusive hotel, he and his business partner had been very successful. But it hadn't been enough for Kilpatrick, who'd gotten his real kicks out of kidnapping and murdering unsuspecting victims from the town below.

It was a wonder the hotel run by the infamous murderer hadn't been torched by an angry mob when its owner's crimes had been discovered. From what I'd learned, his partner—who'd bought out the killer's widow and taken over Seaton House after Kilpatrick had been tried and executed—had hired armed guards to watch the place for the first few years after the crimes.

Good thing, because if it had been destroyed, I wouldn't have this job. My professor was paying me to get information for his book on lesser-known serial killers, ones who'd somehow flown under the radar of most of the history texts. And Kilpatrick was included.

The money had sounded great. The idea of getting out of Chicago until the end of the month was even better. Though, honestly, I was glad I'd be going home on Halloween day. I sure couldn't see spending that night in Seaton House.

Actually, I couldn't see spending any night there. I'd never pictured myself chugging up this mountain scared out of my mind well after dark on a stormy night. I'd hoped to arrive here on a nice, sunny fall afternoon so I could pretend everything was okey-dokey. Why had I thought this research assistant thing was a good idea again?

I didn't have time to wonder because suddenly, as if my car had driven into another dimension, I rounded a curve and saw the huge, hulking shape of the hotel directly in front of me.

"Holy shit," I muttered, immediately reaching for my chest, where my heart was pounding like crazy.

Braking hard and throwing the car into Park, I sat there at the edge of the driveway. I peered through the rain-splashed windshield at the dark, enormous building crouched against the stormy night sky. And gulped.

Seaton House was three stories tall, a fifteen-thousand-square-foot stone mansion constructed in the gothic style. I'd easily been able to track the place back to the Seaton in question, a robber baron who'd built it in 1902 after a visit to Europe. The man had apparently had a thing for the great cathedrals there because when he'd built his American palace, he'd demanded flying buttresses reminiscent of the basilicas of Italy and gargoyles that looked like they'd crawled off the corners of Notre Dame.

Those spiky spires had looked threatening in pictures taken during the day. By night, awash with lightning, they looked capable of supporting the heads of Henry VIII's murdered wives.

"Enough," I snapped out loud, trying to stop myself from going down that imaginative path. "Just look."

So I did. I sat there and I looked, letting my visual impressions mesh with what I already knew about Seaton House.

First impressions are usually the best ones, and, after a few moments, I realized what Ireally thought about the hotel. It was mysterious.

Not terrifying.

My heart stopped thudding and my hands stopped shaking. Now, confronted with the actual place, my irrational fears began to quiet and this became just another building. A business establishment with fading white lines striping its parking lot, with a sign pointing to a delivery entrance, and another toward the scenic overlook.

Just an old house turned hotel.

I wanted to sigh in relief. I settled for easing the car back into Drive and creeping closer, studying the place all the while.

Obviously, the millionaire who'd built it had had delusions of grandeur. The presentation of the house—its location near the edge of a cliff, as if taunting everyone below to look up and not tremble—said as much about its builder as its dramatic design. From his broad, two-hundred-foot verandah, he could have looked out over everything he surveyed and felt like a king.

His delusions hadn't been enough to save him a few decades later. He'd supposedly taken a swan dive off his own cliff in 1929 after losing all his money in the stock market crash.

That's when Kilpatrick had stepped in. He'd been an Italian immigrant—supposedly a minor prince. And right away he'd become known for the interest he showed in the pretty young women living in the town at the foot of his mountain. A number of whom had disappeared during his time in residence.

"Kilpatrick," I murmured, instantly picturing the one grainy black-and-white photograph I'd seen of the man. Dark and handsome with a boyish face, thick black hair and deep-set, soulful brown eyes. He'd looked anything but ruthless. In fact, if I disregarded his long, handlebar mustache, I'd have to describe him as a total Hottie McHotHot. How any young girl from Trouble would have been able to resist him if he'd quirked a finger in her direction, I had no idea.

That was probably why he'd been able to get away with it for so long. The man had been charming and handsome, a prince. He'd been sought after by every single woman in town even though he was married. And when he'd brought in a partner and transformed his palace into a public hotel—providing jobs for a lot of the destitute people in the town below—he'd become a savior.

Who'd have suspected he was behind the disappearance of a slew of chambermaids and shop girls during the depression?

Kilpatrick was, obviously, the one I'd come here to learn more about, at Professor Tyler's request. Having been accused and convicted of killing fifteen women—and suspected of more—the man was surprisingly unknown. Never mentioned in the annals of the most horrible murderers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Tyler wanted to know why. And it wasn't just my ambitions in research journalism that made me want to know why, too. I was, to put it bluntly, fascinated and wanted to learn more.

Curiosity. It killed the cat. But hopefully not the girl.

Okay. Cool. I was ready for this. I felt calm and collected. Kilpatrick was long gone—electrocuted and buried. Everything would be fine.

Even as I told myself I was ready for my stay in hotel hell, I couldn't help noticing—and worrying about—how empty the place looked. It was dark but for a few downstairs windows. There were no lights at all on the upper floors, except for a faint flicker in the very highest window on the north side.

Hey, maybe the guests were just the early-to-bed types. Which might be good…after nine hours in the car, my hair had to be a straggly mess. My makeup had washed off my face in warm beige streaks during my last gas-up because the old station hadn't had an awning. So privacy was a good thing. Hopefully I could just check in, escape to my room, get a good night's sleep, then tomorrow morning meet up with Aro Denton, the current owner of Seaton House.

That was the plan, anyway.

So, taking a deep breath and reaching for my small overnight bag—which I'd thought to leave on the passenger seat rather than in the trunk with my bigger suitcase—I opened the door.

And immediately got drenched. The rain washed down and flooded me as soon as I stuck my head outside. "To hell with it," I muttered as I hopped out, my black leather boots immediately sucking up a few gallons of water from a puddle like a baby diaper sucks up…well, you know.

Not pausing to lock the car, I dashed toward the front of the hotel. Skidding and sliding on the watery gravel, I kept my head down to protect my face from the stinging pellets of freezing cold rain, and literally took the porch steps two at a time. I leapt up onto the verandah, immediately grateful for the shelter of its roof. Shaking out my wet hair, I groaned, imagining how I must look now, with thick, dark curls plastered to my cheeks and sticking to my eyelashes.

Even Kilpatrick himself wouldn't want me now.

While standing up on the verandah, I glanced out toward my car in the parking lot, reaching for my keychain so I could remotely lock it. My brothers were such worrywarts that they'd installed this superfancy antitheft system on it, with all the bells and whistles. Sometimes I considered trying to make the thing stand on its back tires and dance like Herbie the Love Bug.

But as I clicked the lock button and saw the headlights flash in response, I suddenly made a really strange realization. One I should have made as soon as I arrived.

My pretty yellow PT Cruiser was sitting completely alone out there in the parking lot. There wasn't another other car in sight. Not anywhere.

Perfect. I was the only guest. Just call me Janet Leigh and yell for Norman Bates because this was exactly how her night started out, wasn't it?

"You're being an idiot," I mumbled as I swept my wet hair back, straightened my shoulders and strode across the veranda to the front door. The striding wasn't terribly effective since a cup of water squirted out of my boots with every step, but I did the best I could, just in case anyone was watching from the closest window.

Grasping the knob, I twisted it…and realized it was locked. Strange. I'd never heard of a public hotel that locked its doors when guests were expected. Especially since it was only 9:00 p.m.

Sighing, I lifted my hand and grabbed the ornate brass door-knocker. I somehow couldn't muster up any surprise that the thing had a weird-looking gargoyle head. Cracking it hard against the door, I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

"Come on, it's fucking cold out here," I muttered as I knocked again.

More waiting.

Really getting annoyed, I lifted that sucker with both hands and slammed it hard against the brass plate, whacking it a few times just like I used to whack my brothers in the head with a Ping-Pong paddle when they were picking on me.

This time, somebody answered. I'd been lining up to take another swing, and the door opened so fast—thrown back almost violently—that I fell forward into the place. Stumbling over my own wet, slippery boots, I skidded, dropping my overnight bag on the slick tiles inside in the process.

I didn't hit the floor. But I still landed against something hard. Something really hard. And big. And warm.

Something that smelled downright sinful—musky, spicy and male.

My fingers clenched reflexively as I realized I'd fallen right into the arms of a strange man, whose big, delicious-smelling form was the only thing keeping me upright.

A normal person would pull away and start stammering apologies, right?

I closed my eyes and remained where I was.

How could I not? He was warmth personified and I was freezing. And he smelled…oh, God, amazing . That hot scent filled my head until I felt as though I were drawing in his essence with every breath I inhaled.

"Mmm," I groaned, opening my eyes again. Though the light was dim and shadowy, I could easily make out the powerful ropy muscles of his neck. I could even see the pulse in his throat, which was an inch from my mouth.

My fingers were clenched in the soft white fabric of his loosely buttoned shirt, which didn't do much to cover his firm chest.

Put your hands in the air and step away from the hot dude.

But I couldn't make myself do it. I couldn't move backward. I couldn't even look up. Because as soon as I did—as soon as I saw confusion or amusement on this stranger's face—this surreal, intoxicating moment would end. Mystery solved, secrets revealed.

He'd be just another guy with a laugh and a leer. Or bad teeth and a hooked nose. So with one quick, appreciative glance at his strong, square jaw, outlined by a layer of dark stubble, I looked down instead.

The stranger's button-up shirt was open almost to his middle, revealing a swirl of dark, wiry hair and ripples of flexing muscle. Just below his collarbone, I saw the puckered edge of a raw, fresh-looking scar that disappeared beneath his shirt. For some crazy reason, I wanted to lift my hand and scrape my fingers across it. To soothe away the redness. To shiver as I wondered how he'd gotten it.

Bella, wake up!

No. Not yet. I didn't want to.

My wet, jean-covered legs were almost entwined with his and even through the soaked fabric, and his own dark pants, I could feel the powerful warmth of his thighs. Our position was almost sexual, with one of his limbs caught between mine, so I couldn't muster up any surprise when my body reacted in a typical way.

The shakiness in my thighs now had nothing to do with my stumble or my wet boots. A warm current of want drifted through me, making my nipples pucker hard against my thin sweater. And lower I felt a flow of moisture between my legs as my sex swelled against the seam of my jeans.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice low and thick. He almost combined the words you and all, his soft drawl giving a tiny hint that he was from the South.

I thought about his question. Was I all right? No. Not at all. I was ravenous and hot, even while wet and freezing. I was aroused over a complete stranger whose face I hadn't yet seen and was wrapped around him in the shadows while the rain still pounded outside and a strong October wind blew through the open front door.

"Still with me here?" the voice said, sounding a tiny bit amused.

That hint of amusement finally pierced through the hazy cloud of sensual awareness that had been filling my head. Blinking rapidly, I cleared my throat and slowly—carefully—pulled away. I regretted the loss of his warmth the moment an inch of cool evening air separated our bodies.

"I'm okay," I managed to whisper.

Then I looked up and saw his face. And my heart stopped.

In the shadowy light spilling into the foyer from a nearby room, I could just make out the thin scar marring the perfection of his forehead. My breath catching in my lungs, I realized his hair was jet-black. Just like James Kilpatrick's. His eyes…also nearly black. Also like Kilpatrick's.

He looked angry. He looked forbidding. And he looked like a fucking serial killer.

I was definitely not okay.

"Oh, my God," I whispered, already backing toward the door.

Shaking my head—doubting my senses—I quickly chose the storm over the ghosts in this place. When my heels hit the threshold, they kept right on going. Onto the slick wooden planks of the porch. Farther. Farther.

He followed, those intense dark eyes narrowing as he slowly stepped toward me, like some kind of graceful-but-deadly cat stalking its prey.

Graceful. Deadly.

Yes. That pretty well summed him up. Because though my brain told me it was impossible—that I didn't believe in ghosts—I couldn't stop the fear rushing through every inch of me. Did I say I had an imagination that worked overtime in some situations? Well, right now, it was deserving of triple pay.

"Don't come any closer," I whispered.

"Who are you?" he asked, all traces of amusement gone. "What do you want?"

Just to not be slaughtered by a murderous ghost or a reincarnated serial killer. That's all I wanted. To make it back to my car and put the pedal to the metal and race down the mountain like the hounds of hell were after me.

Not hounds, I quickly clarified. Hound . Just one terrifying, murderous creature.

Named James Kilpatrick.

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Thank you for taking time out of your glorious day to read my ramblings, I hope you leave a review!


	3. Chapter 3

I have this story written up to 5 chapters, I'll post the third in a few days.

**Chapter Two**

_**Edward**_

Edward had still been shaking off the tension and trauma of what he'd seen on his laptop screen when the banging on the front door had finally burst into his consciousness. He was unaccustomed to receiving visitors. Just a cleaning lady from a local maid service company, a mailman, occasionally a delivery of groceries. Sometimes old Mr. Potts, who had recently purchased most of the town of Trouble, stopped by. Other than that, he lived in complete solitude.

Which was exactly what he wanted.

So who would pound on his door during a stormy, violent night, he had no idea. He just knew he didn't appreciate the intrusion—not now, not when he was still so concerned about what had just happened. Doubting your own sanity was difficult enough to do in private. In front of unexpected—and unwanted—guests, it was beyond bad.

When he'd yanked open the door, ready to tell whomever was on the other side of it to stop that incessant banging before his head blew off his shoulders, he certainly hadn't expected a woman to fall into his arms. Or that she'd stay there.

Or that she'd feel so incredibly good.

For a few long moments, he'd remained still, soaking in the surprising pleasure of physical contact. He hadn't experienced that in a long time, and until the dark-haired stranger had landed in his arms, he really hadn't known how much he missed it.

Her soft, curvy body, her sweet-smelling skin—even her tangled wet hair—reminded him that it had been a very long, celibate four months since he'd touched a woman. Considering how very much he liked to touch women, that he hadn't exploded out of sheer sexual frustration before now, was the biggest surprise of all.

As a globe-trotting writer of travel guides and newspaper columns, he made a damn good living. And as someone who'd been born with a lot of confidence and the ability to get around the defenses of just about any aloof, sexy woman, he'd never lacked for female companionship. His little black book could probably double as the yellow pages and every one of his friends had harassed him for years about what a lucky son of a bitch he was when it came to sex.

But he wasn't that man anymore. An inner voice of anger and regret, which might have been his conscience or just his intelligent side, was always present now, reminding him of Charleston. It made him acknowledge just how badly giving in to his liking for women had turned out then. A bar pickup with a stranger had seemed dangerous only in the sexual sense—he'd never, in his wildest dreams, imagined how that night would end up. Bloody.

And deadly.

Any man would steer clear of beautiful, strange females after one he'd picked up in a bar had turned out to be armed and violent. The blonde in Charleston—and her accomplice, who had followed them to Edward's hotel room that night—hadn't just robbed him of his money. They had stolen his faith in the basic decency of strangers. So he should have been much more wary of the brunette who'd landed in his arms tonight.

But for some reason, he wasn't. Something had awakened within him. His long dormant sensual side, he supposed. Whatever it was, he had liked having this stranger curl against him as if they were longtime lovers. She'd liked it, too—he could tell by the little sighs in her throat, the soft surrender of her body against his and her warm, womanly smell.

But something had changed. Because the creamy-skinned, dark-haired woman was now backing away from him with horror in her eyes. Stepping closer to the edge of the porch.

A roaring began to build in Edward's head and his whole body grew tense as another image replaced this one. Another woman, another patio. A scream. A plunge.

"Please, stop," he said, forcing the words out of his thick, tight throat as he thrust off the memories and focused on the here and now.

She slid back a little more, until the high heels of her boots moved perilously close to the edge. Though they were only a few feet off the ground—not eleven stories, like he'd been in June when he'd watched a woman fall away—he simply couldn't let it happen. Not this time. So, without warning, he lunged out and grabbed her arm, clamping his hand around her wrist in an iron grip.

She fought, flailing her arms, trying to twist away. "Let go of me."

Her struggle put her on the precipice of the step and he wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her away from it. "You're about to fall." Dropping a hand to the small of her back, he held her with gentle firmness, waiting for her to calm down. He thrust off the pleasure he felt at having her in his arms again, and fought the wicked impulse to drop his hand and cup her ass to keep her from wiggling. Or to keep her exactly where she was. He honestly wasn't sure which.

"Would you relax and tell me who you are and what it is you want?"

She finally stopped squirming, which was a good thing. Because her curvaceous form—though wet and tense—still felt much too good when pressed against his.

Once he was sure she'd relaxed, Edward released her and stepped back, holding his hands up, palms out, in a non-threatening way. The rain still pounded, and a vicious bolt of lightning exploded across the sky, brightening everything around them for a few seconds before plunging them back into near darkness. But that quick glimpse—along with the view he'd had inside, when she'd been in his arms—convinced him of one thing.

The woman was glorious.

All that thick, dark hair hanging like a wet drape around her face only emphasized the creaminess of her skin, the exotic way her dark eyes tilted up slightly at the corners. She had full lips that were trembling either from nervousness or from the cold. High cheekbones, a slim jaw. And a graceful, delicate throat. Beautiful.

But frightened.

Now, however, she seemed to calm down a little. She'd stared at him just as intently during the lightning strike, and whatever she'd seen had made her stop fidgeting.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I think I've regained my sanity."

"What were you afraid of?" he asked, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. "Is someone chasing you?"

She shook her head.

"The storm?"

Another shake. Then, finally, she whispered, "I'm sorry, I was afraid of you for a second."

Stiffening, he realized he should have figured as much. Wasn't the whole damn town afraid of him? At least, afraid of the man they whispered about—the one who didn't bear much resemblance to the real Edward. The gossipers had everything wrong.

Well, practically everything. The rumors that he'd killed someone were more accurate than he'd like to admit.

"I didn't get a good look at you until just now when the lightning flashed," she added.

That made two of them. Although, she'd seemed perfectly willing to feel her way around getting to know him. Not that he blamed her, since he'd had exactly the same reaction to her surprise stumble into his arms.

"You're not…oh, wow, this is going to sound so stupid but for a second, I thought you were…someone else. The black hair and dark eyes were all I saw and I overreacted." She laughed softly and even from a couple of feet away, he reacted to that husky sound. "Of course, you don't have that awful handlebar mustache."

He barked a laugh. "Uh, no, definitely not."

"And you're much scruffier, a lot tougher looking."

He didn't know whether to be offended or not. But he supposed she was right. He was scruffy. He hadn't shaved in a few days and had run his hands through his hair to comb it this morning after his shower. He'd also lost weight during his recovery so his clothes hung on him.

His friends and colleagues in Baton Rouge wouldn't recognize him. Definitely the media wouldn't. With a presence in newspapers across the country and a couple of bestselling books, he wouldn't exactly call himself a celebrity…but people knew his name. The papers back home, at least, had gotten used to labeling him as a smooth, traveling playboy with a woman in every town he visited.

They'd probably gotten a lot of mileage out of Charleston. He'd bet the Fatal Attraction comments had been flying. Since he had avoided any hometown newspapers for the past few months, he could only surmise they'd had a field day with the fact that the reckless playboy had finally tangled with the wrong woman.

Oh, so very wrong.

"Thanks," he finally said, forcing the memories away by sheer force of will. "I think."

She laughed again. "Well, I mean, it is a good thing. You don't look like him, and you sure felt hard."

He did a quick mental check of his body's reactions and realized she wasn't far off the mark. Their close encounter had affected him more than he'd realized.

Clearing her throat nervously, she added, "I mean, you didn't feel like a vapor or a cloud or anything. Stupid, I know, but I thought you were a ghost."

A ghost. Hmm. Three months ago, yes, that would have sounded incredibly stupid to him. It didn't so much now, though. Not after the things he'd seen and felt since moving here. Ghosts seemed as likely an explanation as anything else for the crazy things that had happened since he'd relocated to this tiny corner of Pennsylvania in an effort to escape his past.

Whenever he'd come to visit his uncle Aro at Seaton House before the man's tragic, untimely death last June, he'd always loved the mysterious aura of the old hotel. His uncle used to talk about Seaton House's dark, secretive past, and had promised to someday tell him about how it had come into the family a few generations before, through Edward's great-grandfather.

He'd never dreamed that someday would never happen. That his uncle would be taken away so shockingly a few short weeks before Edward's own world had gone to hell.

He sometimes wondered now, though, if he'd feel differently about this place if he knew whatever it was Aro had hinted about. Despite what guests would sometimes say, and the comments his uncle occasionally made about the place's history, he'd always scoffed at the idea that anything supernatural was going on. Even having a home near New Orleans hadn't made him a believer in the occult. But living here for three months…well, he wished he and his uncle could have had that conversation.

The brunette was watching, appearing almost tentative after her only half-joking admission that she thought he was a ghost. And he wasn't about to add fuel to the fire of her imagination. He would never open his mouth about something as foolish as his occasional curiosity about whether his was the only spirit residing in Seaton House.

"Well, I'm not a ghost," he said, beginning to stiffen and emotionally pull away in self-defense, as he had for the past several months. Now that she'd calmed down, and removed herself from the edge of the porch—and from him —he frowned and got back to the more pressing issue. "So, tell me, what are you doing here?"

Another splash of lightning made him realize she'd moved closer to the door and was, in fact, reaching for the knob. "I don't recall inviting you in." That didn't appear to faze her. She pushed the door open and walked back into his house as if she belonged there.

She didn't. He was meant to be alone. The last thing he needed was to do something stupid like letting his interest in a beautiful woman influence his actions. Wasn't he still recovering from the wounds from the last time he'd let that happen?

Real annoyance began to crawl through him, his shoulders growing tight with tension. "Have you ever heard of respecting private property?" he asked as he followed her inside the dimly lit foyer.

"Isn't there any light in this place?"

"The power's out."

Grabbing her bag from the floor where she'd dropped it, she walked toward the study. Her heels made a funny squishing sound as they tapped against the hard tile. "So where's that light coming from?"

"Well, yes, of course, make yourself at home," he muttered, not attempting to hide his sarcasm.

Unable to believe he was trailing after a complete stranger—a drenched, gorgeous one—in his own home, Edward strode past her. He stepped into his office, turning in the doorway to block her way. "I have a few battery-powered lanterns. Now, would you mind answering my questions? Who are you and what do you think you're doing barging into my home?"

"Your home? " One of her fine, dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. Here, closer to the lantern, he had a better view of her face, the redness in her cheeks and the tremble of her lips that told him she was cold.

"Yes, my home," he muttered as he grudgingly swung out of her way and gestured her in.

"This is Seaton House, isn't it?"

He nodded. The woman opened her mouth to continue, but before she could do so, she let out a few little sneezes. Unable to keep the gruffness from his voice, he pointed toward the fireplace. "Go over there. You look like you're about to shatter from cold."

She didn't hesitate, rushing toward the crackling fire in the massive fireplace that dominated one wall of his office. She held her hands out—pale, slender hands—and Edward saw they were shaking.

Wonderful. A freezing, wet waif had landed on his doorstep, intruding on his solitude when he could least afford the interruption. He was finally getting back to work—returning to his writing after a long hiatus during his recovery. In fact, before the strange image had appeared on his computer screen tonight—or, the image he thought had appeared—he'd actually managed to churn out eight pages of the travel guide he was contracted to write.

He needed to get the book done. It was the first step in reclaiming his life. Returning to his place in the world, changed though it may be.

To do that, he needed to be alone. With no distractions. No reminders of how stupid he'd been to let physical desire take the place of common sense.

He'd nearly paid for it with his life. And in his darkest moments, he suspected he had paid for it with his soul.

But he wasn't completely lost to the social niceties. Shoving her back toward her car—which had been his first instinct—didn't seem very gentlemanly.

Not that he'd been accused of being a gentleman. At least not lately. "Foul-tempered beast" was, he believed, the epithet one of his unwanted guests from town had flung over her shoulder after he'd ordered her off his property a week or so ago.

Still, he just couldn't see forcing the stranger to get out on the road again during what sounded like the most violent height of the storm. She'd leave the moment it was over. The very second.

Shivering in front of the fire, the woman wriggled out of her coat, dropped it to the hearth, then stood there and soaked up the heat.

Hmm…maybe not the very second .

Because damn, the brunette was built like a centerfold. It was bad enough that she had those big, dark eyes and that beautiful face. Did she have to have such mouthwatering curves, too? Even from several feet away he reacted, a warm flow of familiar desire washing over him and pulsing in his groin.

If she were a few feet closer, she definitely would not mistake him for anything but rock-hard man.

No, not again. You're a different man.

And she was a different woman. She wasn't an easy blonde in a skin-tight short skirt giving him a sultry glance across a crowded bar on a hot June night. She was nothing like that woman.

Spying his half-empty drink on the coffee table beside his laptop, he went over to it, picked it up and slowly drained the neat Scotch. The alcohol only ratcheted up the heat—it did nothing to calm him.

He couldn't help staring at her. Her black jeans were plastered to a generous pair of hips and an incredibly long pair of legs. They disappeared into her high black boots.

Her V-necked red sweater, also soaked, outlined her slim waist and positively clung to her generous breasts.

Correction. More. Than. Generous.

The woman was very well built. His hands clenched reflexively at the thought of cupping her, scraping his fingers across her puckered nipples, so sexy and inviting against the sweater.

She turned around, so her curvy butt faced the flames. Smiling, almost purring in delight, she closed her eyes. Obviously wanting more, she shifted her feet a little apart, silently admitting she wanted the waves of heat to slide between her wet thighs.

He stiffened. But didn't take his eyes off her.

Pure physical contentment made her whole body stretch and sway. It was as if each muscle in her body were crying out to be kneaded and caressed by the heat, every inch of her skin kissed by the glow of the fire.

She soaked it up. Indulged in it. Smiled and sighed at the pleasure of sensation.

As he stood there and watched, lazy desire suddenly turned into raging want. It was sudden. Shocking. Overpowering.

This wasn't about looking at a woman and acknowledging she was lovely. It was about seeing the secret, sensual side of a mysterious female and knowing that she wanted to be touched—was thinking of being touched—by a lot more than warm air.

And he did know. He'd suspected it when she hadn't pulled away from him after falling into his arms. Now, seeing her take pleasure from the warmth enfolding her body, he had no doubt this stranger was one sensual woman.

Watching long, individual tendrils of her dark hair slowly beginning to dry, he swallowed hard as a few strands thickened in soft curls around her face. He would dearly love to see the woman strip off her wet clothing, piece by piece, and stand there, covered only by the golden glow of the flames and her own thick, brown hair.

Lowering his glass, he stepped closer. There was more he'd like to see. A lot more. Like the way her bottom lip would catch between her teeth as a small moan escaped her mouth when she was being caressed. The way those tiny remaining goose bumps on her neck would disappear under the warmth of his touch.

The way her dark eyes would widen and her body arch as he slid inside her.

No.

He'd let his guard down around a sultry stranger once. He'd never do it again.

Clearing his throat, he asked, "Feeling better?"

She finally opened her eyes and nodded lazily. "Definitely. My brain cells are functioning again."

The rest of her looked in tip-top shape, too.

"I think some of the cold rain slid into my head somehow and made me act like a twit when you opened the door."

"Yes, that would explain it," he replied softly, hiding a smile when he saw her eyebrows shoot up in indignation.

She must have seen some hint of humor sparkling in his eyes. "Smart-ass. I was trying to apologize for being such an idiot."

"An idiot?" He wasn't sure whether she meant the way she'd curled into his arms, or the way she'd suddenly flung herself out of them. A part of him—the sexual, womanizing part he'd thought had been lost along with a lot of his blood and part of his chest back in Charleston—preferred to think it was the latter.

"Thinking you were a ghost or something. You don't really look like…him."

"Him?" Edward stepped closer, then sat on the arm of an overstuffed leather chair beside the fireplace. "Please tell me you're not referring to Casper," he murmured. "If I'm a ghost, I'd at least like to think I'm a frightening one."

She chuckled softly, and Edward relaxed a little at the sound. He wasn't used to making small talk with strangers. To light conversation and lighter flirtation. To letting down his guard and laughing. But he was remembering why he'd once liked it so very much.

God, what had happened to the man he'd once been?

The stranger's pale cheeks were now flushed, though he didn't know if it was because of the fire or embarrassment. "No, of course not. It was silly. It's been a long day of driving." Wriggling, she twisted again to face him—and to warm her left side. She tugged at her clothes, but the wet fabric thwacked right back against her skin, the jeans still clinging tightly to her. And the sweater…heaven help him, the soft, red fabric was almost glued to those high, full breasts and the taut, puckered nipples beneath.

He needed another drink.

"For the past hour I was thinking of nothing but how scary this place was going to be, and wondering how I'd let myself get talked into coming here." She laughed softly, a low, whiskey laugh. "But the worse the weather got, and the heavier my eyelids, the more I just desperately wanted to get here so I could get into bed."

Edward coughed into his fist, glad he hadn't just sipped his scotch. "Into bed? "

"Sure. That's the only thing that kept me going, knowing there'd be a nice big, warm bed at the end of my trip." She shrugged. "Speaking of which…maybe I should head there and get out of these clothes."

Edward sat there for a moment, trying to put it all together. Finally he got it. The sexy-as-hell woman who'd landed on his doorstep had been sent here. She'd landed in his arms. She'd been wiggling that gorgeous ass and smiling that seductive smile and making him hard from halfway across the room just by the way she savored a little warmth.

She was obviously good at what she did. Very good. And he suddenly began to suspect he knew what that was.

"Who sent you?" he asked, slowly rising to his feet. "Was it Adam? My agent?"

She raised a quizzical brow. "No, I don't know anyone named Adam."

"Look, it doesn't matter," he said, thrusting a hand through his hair as the anger and frustration rose within him. Damn his interfering friends. It didn't really matter who had done it, they were all equally as pushy and intrusive. Any one of them could have done this.

Because he had no doubt he'd finally figured out the secret of this sexy mystery woman. Someone had hired her to come here and cheer him up. Get him back in the saddle, in one way or another. And all of those ways involved him getting her naked.

Any normal man would probably be very cheered up at the idea of taking this incredible woman to bed. And if she'd showed up on his doorstep four months ago, he would have done exactly that. He wouldn't have let her up until she couldn't walk. Or even close her thighs.

He wasn't that man anymore, however, and he didn't know if he ever would be. So though part of him—a big part—was tempted to help her strip out of her wet clothes right here and now, and take her on the thick, plush carpet in front of the fireplace, he simply couldn't do it. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," he muttered. "Your…services…aren't required."

She tilted her head in confusion even as she tried awkwardly to squeeze some remaining water out of her hair. "My services?"

Why did she have to look so adorable, as well as so damn hot? He couldn't stand the contrast, since both sides of her appealed to him so strongly.

Edward managed to thrust his deep, primal reaction to her away. Crossing his arms and leveling a steady stare at her, he said, "Yes, your services. I'm sure whoever hired you thought they were doing me a favor. But I'm just not in the market." Though deep inside, a tiny voice protested the lie, he added, "You're not what I need."

"Not…"

"So as soon as you dry off, you might as well go to your car and drive back to wherever you came from. Because you won't be sharing my bed tonight."

Her jaw dropped. "Your bed?"

"Right. You are beautiful, I won't deny it, but I'm just not in the mood for a hooker."

* * *

Thank you so much for reading.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Wow! I'm floored by the response that this is getting, thank you guys so much!

I was going to wait to post this, but I wanted to thank you all for reading and alerting, and this is the best thing I cold think of.

* * *

**Bella**

Excuse me while I fall to the floor in paroxysms of laughter. I, Bella Swan, so untouched in nearly three years that my hymen had probably grown back, was being called a hooker.

The irony didn't escape me.

Funny, on the rare occasions I'd imagined myself being insulted by a man, I thought I'd go all slap-happy on his ass. I mean, on his face. But my first instinct was not to slap. It was to howl. To grab my stomach and laugh until it hurt and tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Unable to quit it, I shook my head back and forth, snorting at the very possibility that I could have sex for a living. Hell, I couldn't even have it for recreation!

But looking at the man watching me from a few feet away—the incredibly sexy man who bore no more than a superficial resemblance to a mass murderer—I was beginning to question that. Because oh, wouldn't I like to have it for recreation with the man who'd made me feel so incredibly aroused.

I couldn't recall a single moment in my life when I'd felt so sensual and charged up as I had when I'd fallen into his arms. Those moments had awakened something more. Something that had lain just beneath the surface of my skin, waiting—screaming—to get out. Just the touch of his body against mine had brought every hungry, sexual urge I'd ever experienced raging up until I wasn't sure I was going to be able to remain on my feet.

Too bad my own foolish fears had made me stagger away. Though, I ought to give myself a break. Because in the shadowy light, with my wild imagination, he really had looked a bit like James Kilpatrick. But now, having had a better look at him, I knew he didn't bear much of a resemblance to the man I'd come here to investigate. His hair and eyes were dark—more black than brown—but there the resemblance ended. His face wasn't soft and dreamy, it was all hard angles. Jutting and strong, not curved and gentle. His deep-set eyes were made even more dramatic by the thin scar running from his hairline, down his forehead, to the corner of his right eye.

Most people's scars looked old, hinting of past wounds—childhood traumas long forgotten. Reminders of one moment of recklessness from years ago.

This one looked fresh. Though slim, the line of white, puckered skin was made more dramatic by the newly healed pink flesh around it. That scar, and the one on his chest, both hinted at some kind of story about this stranger. One I was dying to find out.

Even if he did think I was a hooker.

Guess I'd better take care of that right off the bat. "Sorry to break it to you," I finally said, controlling my laughter with one final chuckle, "I'm not a call girl. But, well, thanks for thinking I could be."

He just stared, revealing nothing with that intense gaze and unsmiling expression.

I was babbling, but I couldn't stop. "I mean, I guess you thinking I was a hooker isn't as bad as me thinking you were a serial killer."

The dark eyebrow came down, emphasizing his scar and the fathomless depths of his black eyes. God, the man was utterly mesmerizing. And I was jabbering like a teenager after an overdose of Mountain Dew. "Look, Mr. Denton, I'm Bella Swan. Professor Tyler's assistant?"

His head jerked back. I'd finally gotten some kind of response. "My name isn't Denton," he said, a muscle in his jaw clenching. The words came grudgingly out of his mouth like coins coming from a miser.

Confused, I tilted my head, wriggling my bottom a little more toward the fireplace, since the seat of my jeans finally felt like it was drying out. "I'm sorry, I thought you said you lived here. I assumed you were Aro Denton, the owner of the hotel. Is he here?"

He turned away, crossing his strong arms over his chest. The movement made the white fabric of his shirt hug tight against his broad shoulders and muscular back. "Seaton House is no longer a hotel. It's been out of business since Aro Denton—my uncle—died four months ago."

I couldn't help gasping in surprise. "Died…oh, God, I'm so sorry, I had no idea."

"Thank you," he murmured. "Now, since my uncle is not here, and you're obviously…drying…perhaps you should get on the road again before it gets too late."

Here's your hat, what's your hurry. What a congenial guy he was. "Look, Mr…."

"Cullen."

Mmm. Sounded British. Sounded sexy. Which made sense because the man was six feet two inches of walking yumminess.

"Mr. Cullen, I don't have anywhere else to go."

He didn't move, just stood there watching, as if silently asking what my point was.

"Arrangements were made for me to stay here." Then, feeling pretty pathetic and knowing I'd just shoot myself if I had to drive out in this weather, I added, "I'm very, very sorry about your uncle's death. But really, the weather's horrible, I have driven nine hours to get here, it's nearly ten o'clock on a weeknight. Where do you suggest I go?"

He leaned his shoulder against a richly paneled wall, his arms still crossed over his big chest. His eyes glittered and his lips lifted the tiniest bit at the corners as he said, "You could go back to wherever you came from. If you leave now, you'll be home before dawn."

At first I thought he was kidding. I'd noticed a couple of times since I'd arrived that he seemed to have a caustic, quiet sense of humor, though he did a pretty good job of hiding it behind a surly sneer. But this time he looked deadly serious.

My mouth dropped open. I could not believe how rude the guy was being. Despite feeling sorry that his uncle had died, I was really getting mad.

That didn't, of course, mean I no longer wanted to jump on him and lick him like he was a mountain of cotton candy. He might be rude, but he was still just about the sexiest thing I'd ever seen.

A loud crash of thunder sounded overhead and I flinched a little. "You can't expect me to go out in that. This is a hotel…."

"Was a hotel. I closed it immediately after inheriting it upon my uncle's death."

"And you live here alone?" I asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice. Because, really, who would want to live in a place this enormous—that had once housed a serial killer and the corpses of his victims—all alone?

"Yes." He tilted his head, as if listening for something, then murmured, "You should probably be going. I think the rain has lightened up."

"You've got to be kidding me. This was a hotel as of a few months ago," I argued, not about to let him push me out. "There has to be a place for me to sleep. For God's sake you probably have forty guest rooms."

He shrugged. "I like to spread out."

I looked for a twinkle in those black eyes but didn't see one. Damned if I could read him. And that was like waving a red flag in front of my face.

I couldn't figure this man out. I wanted to figure this man out. Ergo, I had to stay. "You're being unreasonable. You really can't expect me to go back out in that."

Somehow, I knew I was arguing not only for the sake of my job, the research project, but also because I wasn't ready to walk away from the obsidian-eyed stranger whose muscular arms bulged against the fabric of his shirt and whose striking face was only enhanced by his swarthiness and that scar. The one who had, at least a handful of times, checked me out from half-lowered lashes when he thought I wasn't watching.

Not watching? Hell, I hadn't taken my eyes off the black-haired god since we walked into the room.

I liked that he was looking. Because it told me that despite his brusque attitude and coldness, he wasn't entirely unaffected by me. Even if it was simple attraction, he was feeling something . Just like I was.

"A half hour ago you thought I was a serial killer. Now you want to sleep under my roof?"

I waved my hand, unconcerned. "I told you, my imagination was just all worked up." Trying to sound pathetic and tired—which I really was, I supposed—I added, "Probably from exhaustion and fatigue after driving in such horrible conditions for so many hours."

"You can't stay here."

Grabbing my purse off the side table where I'd dropped it, I dug out a folded, damp piece of paper. "I have a reservation. I have a guaranteed room here until October 31." I waved the thing at him like a banner, almost daring him to come close enough to take it.

He did. And suddenly my butt wasn't the only thing getting hot. With every step closer he took, the temperature in the room went up a degree. Or ten. My breath got heavy and I had a hard time forcing it out of my lungs because the air was so thick, and strong with his musky, masculine smell. His presence.

He kept coming closer, until the tips of his feet touched the base of the hearth. I was standing on top of it, which gave me a few inches of height, until we were almost eye-to-eye.

Oh, the face… He should be on the cover of magazines. Or a romance novel. With the scar and the hint of a beard, he would make a perfect pirate. He just needed an earring and a gold tooth. Well, not the gold tooth, I guessed. Pirates in real life might have had them, but pirates in romance novels most certainly did not. I should know. They had become a steady staple in my reading diet over the past few years.

Remember that research thing I mentioned?

"You can't expect me to honor a reservation when this place isn't even in business," he said, yanking the paper out of my hand and giving it a cursory glance. "Besides, this isn't even in your name."

I snatched it back from between his fingers. "It's my professor's name. He made the reservation six months ago when he arranged with your uncle for me to come and do some research on Seaton House."

He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "And you got in a car and drove nine hours, without even checking on a reservation made six months ago?"

He had a point. I'd meant to do that, honestly. But with all the stuff I had to do to get ready to leave, including getting my other professors to agree to my time off, arranging for my sister-in-law Rachel to take care of my cat, packing, doing research to prepare for my research…well, I'd just forgotten. "It was all arranged," I mumbled, knowing I didn't sound very persuasive.

"By this professor, and my uncle."

I nodded. Wondering if a little more ammunition would help, I reached for my overnight bag. "I have copies of their correspondence. Professor Tyler and Mr. Denton agreed it would be fine for me to come this semester, after midterms. Your uncle said I could have full access to the house, as well as any records, books and correspondence I could find in the library and storage rooms."

He spared a glance at the letters, flinched, then closed his eyes briefly at the sight of the spidery handwriting on the outside of one of the bulky envelopes I retrieved. It was apparently in his uncle's handwriting, and I suddenly felt very mean. "I'm sorry, I know I'm being incredibly pushy," I said, lowering the letters back into the bag.

"Yes, you are."

Dropping my arms to my sides, I felt my shoulders slump. "I just really don't want to get back in that car and drive off into the storm again." Swallowing, I quietly added, "Please."

I didn't continue, didn't beg or harass him. I simply let him see my weariness and genuine concern about trying to navigate back down this mountain on such a wild night.

He said nothing, just stared into my face. I held the stare, suddenly feeling a bit light-headed as I lost myself in his eyes. They were so piercing…so deep and secretive. Angry. Stormy. Intense.

Why, then, wasn't I afraid of him? But I wasn't. In fact, his angry facade attracted more than it than repelled me.

Because he was incredibly sexy, perhaps. Because of the way his body had felt pressed against mine earlier. Because of the aura of excitement oozing from his every pore. Because of the scars on his body that told a story. Because of the hints of dry wit that had come out of his mouth.

Because he was here in this house alone and quite obviously dealing with something that had left him angry and hurt, and he seemed determined to keep it that way.

Just as determined as I was to stay. At least for tonight.

And after tonight…well, we'd see.

He broke the stare first. "All right," he finally said, his voice low and throaty. "You can stay for one night. But you leave first thing tomorrow morning. Understand?"

***

An hour later, tucking my cold body between the cold sheets in a cold room on the third floor, I was beginning to regret my persistence. Did I mention it was cold?

"It's your own fault," I whispered as I tugged the old, faded bedspread and thin, worn blankets tightly under my chin. I curled up in a ball and rolled to my side, trying to provide my own body heat by bringing my knees to my chest.

Yes, it was my own fault. Not only for insisting I stay here, but also because I hadn't taken my less-than-gracious host up on his grudging offer to go try to fire up what he called an "ancient" generator out back in the garage. I was trying to be an easy unwanted guest—hoping if I wasn't a problem he might reconsider and let me stay tomorrow. So, thinking that if he was fine in the house with no electricity for the night, I would be, too, I'd said thanks but no thanks.

Big mistake. Stick a giant wooden stick between my legs and you'd have a human Popsicle.

"You asked for this," I muttered, trying to distract myself from the shivery twitches of my legs and arms. Not to mention the sight of my own breaths puffing out into the air.

I'd asked for it, and I'd gotten it. I'd been so happy he'd agreed I could stay that I hadn't voiced a single protest when he'd led me up to the shadowy third floor. I'd barely had time to glance at the old paintings gracing the walls—beautiful but disturbing images of this very house and the ragged cliffs surrounding three sides of it.

He'd lit the way with one of his lanterns. Using an ancient-looking iron key, he'd open the door to a room that smelled of must and old age. Without so much as a good-night, Mr. Cullen had set the lantern on the dresser, spun around and stalked out of the room, obviously familiar enough with the house to maneuver his way back in the darkness.

Mr. Cullen. God, I didn't even know his first name. But I didn't care. Deep down part of me prayed he'd get lost in the darkness and accidentally wander back in here during the night, mistaking my room for his. That he'd crawl in bed beside me like a fly landing in a web.

That would make me the spider.

But I didn't care. I was feeling predatory, unable to shut down the heated images in my mind. Frankly, three years and no sex would probably have made me react to a balding, middle-aged circus clown. With a hot and dangerous, strikingly handsome man like Cullen, it was almost more than I could stand.

Despite the cold, my body wanted to kick off the weight of the covers. To writhe around on the bed, twisting my legs, spreading them—anything to ease the ache of want that had become so familiar it was almost part of me now. Though my hair and body had dried, I was still wet, between my thighs, wanting sex. Wanting it badly. Which was why I'd worn a thoroughly inappropriate-for-the-weather slinky nightgown, just on the off chance the man was coming back.

"He's not coming back," I whispered, tempted to get up and put on my sweats and socks. And my coat.

But even the cold couldn't keep my mind off warm, intimate thoughts for too long. Not now that a gruff-talking, black-eyed stranger had brought every sexual urge I possessed out of hiding and started them all doing a kick line deep inside my body.

Somehow, though, I knew it wasn't just desperate sexual hunger keeping me awake. I couldn't stop thinking of my host's dark haunted eyes. He'd been gruff—abrasive, yes—but he was practically wrapped in an aura of wounded sadness, lashing out at the world but only hurting himself.

I knew, deep inside, that he needed warm, gentle hands to heal him. Just as I knew I needed hot, strong hands to heal me .

We were exactly what each other needed. Exactly.

"Oh, God," I whispered, staring up toward the ceiling, lit by a bit of watery moonlight that had finally emerged now that the worst of the storm had passed. "I can't leave here tomorrow."

If I had known where my host's bedroom was, I might have risked pulling some kind of female trick. Racing to him in a sexy nightgown to tell him I saw a mouse or something. Lame, I know. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

Unfortunately, I didn't know where the man was. And in this huge house which, he informed me as he led me upstairs, had forty-two guest rooms, I wasn't likely to stumble over him.

Suddenly hearing a creaking sound in the hallway, I sucked in a breath, convinced he was about to knock on my door and ask me if I wanted him to keep me warm with his big, hot body. I thought the sound—footsteps—paused in front of my doorway, and held my breath for the longest time.

The door never opened. The footsteps never moved away. And I figured my overactive imagination had been running away with me again.

He wasn't coming back. So I had to stay beyond tonight, had to get him tolet me stay…for both our sakes.

I ran over several different scenarios. Calling my professor and having him appeal to the man was probably not going to help. Cullen didn't appear to be the helpful type, like his uncle had been. So he probably wouldn't encourage anyone snooping around in his house, digging up secrets about its past.

Maybe the secrets of the house would be enough, though. Because my host hadn't revealed by so much as the flicker of an eyelid that he had any idea who I was talking about when I'd called him a serial killer. Perhaps he didn't even know about the bloody secrets hidden in these walls.

"So I'll tell him," I muttered. "I'll tell him and he'll be so fascinated he'll let me have the run of the place."

Including his bedroom. Wishful thinking, I know. But I couldn't help it.

Have I mentioned that I'm fricking horny?

It wasn't just how badly I needed to get laid that had me scheming in my bed well into the night. I was sexually attracted to the man like I'd never been to anyone else. And I was fascinated by him. Why was he hiding out here in this drafty old place all alone? Why was he so secretive, so angry?

Then there were the scars.

Oh, you can bet my imagination had been on overdrive about those. Had he been mauled by an animal?

No. Not enough gouges to be claws.

A car accident?

The injuries seemed too precise and limited.

Shot. Or stabbed.

As much as I hated to admit it, I believed that could be the answer. The scar on his face looked thin and wicked, as if a blade had traced a quick route from his hairline to the corner of his eye. And the one on his chest wasn't as long and looked more surgical, as if he'd had to be cut open to have something removed. Like a bullet?

Yeah, yeah, I was going off on tangents. See an appendix scar and imagine a shootout at the OK Corral, that was my m.o.

Only, that wasn't any appendix scar unless the man's appendix had decided to take up residence near his heart. And the darkness in his eyes wasn't from someone who'd had some minor little surgery.

He'd been wounded. Physically and emotionally. I knew it like I knew every word on the menu at my folks' restaurant.

But I didn't know enough, I wanted to know more. Had to know more. Like any good researcher, I was filled with curiosity.

Like any hot-blooded woman, I was filled with desire.

I wasn't leaving here until both had been satisfied.

Hoping the man wouldn't toss me on my ear at dawn before I'd had a chance to wear down his defenses with my vivid serial killer storytelling ability—or my cleavage…hey, I was desperate—I suddenly thought of another stalling tactic. He couldn't very well make me leave if I was incapable of going anywhere.

Hopping out of the bed, I cringed as my bare toes hit the cold, wood floor. I guess people who'd stayed here wanted the whole authentic shebang. Personally, I'd take a thick plush carpet over icy feet on a splintery floor any day.

Grabbing my purse, I dug around until I found my keys. Trying to tiptoe in case my host's room was directly below mine and he was down there in his bed, all hard, muscular, and naked—stop it—I made my way toward the window. It overlooked the front parking lot, where my pretty, perky car sat like a freshly cracked yellow egg sitting in a skillet.

This probably wouldn't work. But it was worth a shot.

The window was the old-fashioned type, thickly paned with warped glass. The paint on the frame was cracking and dingy—fitting in with the aura of abandon that permeated this place. Blowing off some dust, I quickly found the latch and unfastened it. Newer hotels didn't have windows that opened—probably because of the fear of leapers. This one, though, slid up after I applied a good bit of pressure to it.

A strong, frigid gust of moist wind burst into the room, sending the curtains straight back. My hair, too.

Shivering, I leaned out the window, my keychain in my hand, and prayed I wasn't too far away. The nifty little safety system my brothers had installed didn't merely lock and unlock my car remotely. It also had a safety device to prevent theft. The engine could be disabled with the flick of a switch.

So I sent up a silent apology for being so dishonest. I prayed it would work. And I flicked.

Nothing happened. Not a damn thing. I was too far away.

Muttering a couple of really inappropriate words that would make my mother reach for the Ivory soap to wash out my mouth, I fumed a minute, thinking about what to do. This could be a sign from above that I was just not meant to do something so dishonest. Someone up there was telling me so.

Someone down here, however, was saying I just needed to get closer to the car. I guess it was the little fishnet-wearing devil Bella sitting on my shoulder. She had, throughout my life, been able to tie, blindfold and gag any haloed angel who ever tried to take up residence on the other one.

Not thinking about it for a second longer, in case I lost my nerve, I hurried to the door and opened it, cursing the squeak. The outside hallway was dark, so I turned on the portable lantern Edward had left for me, keeping it on the lowest possible setting.

Fortunately, I was just a few steps away from the stairs, and I quickly made my way down the first flight. Pausing on the landing, I peered over the railing to the foyer below, to ensure the coast was clear.

I saw nothing. Just shadows and shapes in the ink-black night, which was almost enough to send me scurrying back to my room. But I resisted the urge. I simply had to make it down the second flight and out the front door, push a button, then race back up here and leap into my bed before I froze to death.

Speaking of freezing, I really should have put my clothes back on before setting out on this midnight jaunt. I was still wearing just my silky white nightgown with thin spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline.

Hey, I went to bed hoping Edward would suddenly remember he had to tell me something, remember? Had to be prepared. I just hadn't been prepared to have a maniacal impulse to disable my own car so I could get the chance to stay here for a while.

If I went back upstairs, I might lose my nerve. So I proceeded forward, creeping down one silent step at a time. The door to the office was firmly shut. Only the tiniest hint of a glow was visible beneath it, probably from the last burning embers of the fire. It was after 1:00 a.m., he had to be in bed.

Beneath my bare feet, the marble tiles were like blocks of ice and I hissed with every step. Tiptoeing, I finally reached the door and unlocked it. I said a quick prayer that it wouldn't squeak, then slowly tugged it open.

No squeak. Thank heaven.

"And they say Chicago's cold," I whispered as a gust of damp, frigid air blew in and assaulted me. The Windy City had nothing on this mountain. I needed to perform my act of sabotage and hightail it back upstairs quickly.

Shivering, I stepped right outside the door, whimpering at the frigid wood floor of the verandah. When I quickly pressed the button on the keychain device, a single flash of the headlights on my car told me it had worked. I was just thankful the horn hadn't beeped the way it did whenever the car was remotely locked.

Not that it probably would have mattered. The storm had certainly eased, but low rolls of thunder continued to churn in the sky and silent bolts of lightning appeared here and there to brighten up the night. The rain no longer came down in sheets, it merely sluiced a steady drizzle of icy moisture onto the already soaked ground.

I liked storms. Oh, not driving in them, obviously, but I liked looking at them. Smelling that electric scent of power and feeling the moisture in the air before the first drop of rain fell. When safely under shelter, I often liked to watch lightning dance across the sky in the distance, knowing I was safe and it couldn't reach me. Getting a bit of a thrill by pretending maybe it could.

But it was late, I was freezing and I needed sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day, the make-or-break time when I had to put all my skills to work to get my host allow me to stay. The car trick would buy me some time. The rest was up to me.

Turning to head back inside, I bit back a scream when I saw a door opening farther down the verandah, one room past what I knew was the office. The white curtains hanging on the French door blew wildly in the night, dancing in the wind, creating a strange misty fog of fabric. And through that fog of fabric stepped a dark figure.

I couldn't move. Not one inch. I stayed there just outside the front door, watching the figure emerge about twenty feet away. It wasn't until after he'd disentangled himself from the sheers that I knew for sure it was my host.

He was dressed as he'd been earlier, but his white long-sleeved shirt wasn't buttoned at all and it blew out behind him just as the curtains did. He didn't flinch, didn't make any concession whatsoever to the frigid air. He simply walked to the railing and looked up at the sky.

I'd thought at first that he'd heard me, or seen the flash of headlights, but he never even looked my way. I remained frozen still, not moving for fear I'd attract his attention and have to explain what on earth I was doing out here. In my nightgown. My very sexy, filmy nightgown that was pressed against every inch of my body because of the wind.

Hmm.

Not even really deciding to do it, I cleared my throat. He jerked his head, saw me standing there and just stared. Hopefully the wind and my slinky nightgown were doing nice things for my butt and hips.

He was silent for so long, I began to wonder if he'd been sleepwalking. Finally, unable to take the tension, I came up with a quick explanation for my presence.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my own voice cracking. Clearing my throat I said, "I hope I didn't wake you. I, just…remembered I hadn't locked my car."

"Bella?" he said, coming closer.

The hesitation in his tone told me he was confused, as if he'd thought I was someone else. Who that someone else could be at this hour in this desolate, abandoned place, I had no idea. "Yes. It's me. I am so sorry if I woke you."

He continued moving toward me, his bare feet making no sound on the wet planked floor. Still he made no concession to the weather, his shirt continuing to blow around him, as did his thick hair.

The man looked dangerous. It's-the-middle-of-the-night-and-he's-a-stranger dangerous. But somehow, I didn't care. I made no effort to leave and had no virginal, self-protective instinct to cross my arms over my chest. How could I when the glorious man was staring at me like a seductive wolf at a plate of lamb chops?

Reaching my side, he finally murmured, "You shouldn't be out here."

"Neither should you."

He raked a slow, thorough glance down my body, obviously able to see my breasts almost to the nipples in the low cut gown. The thing fit well, with a supportive bodice that pushed my already more than generous curves up to Penthouse quality heights and I could probably hold up a flagpole with my tight, overflowing cleavage.

I'd often thought how silly men were about women's breasts. More often than not, I'd considered mine a nuisance whose sole purpose was in getting out of speeding tickets or picking up a fellow college student. Those guys always reminded me of ten-year-olds, as they did their usual rub-squeeze-twist-see-what-I-get-to-play-with thing that they all considered foreplay.

Now, however, I was feeling different. Cullen wouldn't be like that, I knew it. He would know exactly how to touch me to elicit only feelings of blissful pleasure and pure eroticism.

I wanted that. I wanted this dark, sultry stranger to stroke me, to run his fingertips down my cleavage, then catch my nipples between his fingers and lightly squeeze them. I shivered, feeling the tips of my breasts get hard and tight against the silk and could think of nothing else but how amazing it would feel if he were to lick me there, sucking hard while dropping a hand between my legs.

"What are you really doing out here?" he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

"I told you."

"You came down here, dressed like that, just so you could do something to your car?"

At last, a question I could answer honestly. "Yes, I swear to you, I did. I didn't intend to stay out here and was heading right back to my warm— To my bed. But then you came out."

"And you decided to…stay?" Not waiting for an answer, he lifted his hand and brushed the back of his fingers on my shoulder. "You're freezing."

Freezing? Oh, no. I felt very, very hot.

I could have made some lame well, you could keep me warm comment, but we were already way beyond that level of silly, light flirtation. Instead, I inched closer to him, using his body to block the wind, smelling the warm, masculine scent arising from his skin. His shirt continued to whip around and now I could see more of the scar just below his collarbone. Not to mention the ripples of muscle and taut, wiry hair.

I couldn't resist. Lifting a hand, I laid it flat on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. And his heat.

He didn't say anything. He merely acted. Without a word of warning, he slid both his hands into my hair, cupping my head and tugging me forward. Any gasp of surprise I might have made was drowned out by my own heart, which thudded like crazy as he lowered his mouth to mine.

Then our lips met. Opened. Tasted. Thunder pounded…or maybe it was just the low roar of pleasure rolling through me.

The rain picked up again and lightning flashed somewhere nearby. I wasn't aware of any of it. I couldn't focus on anything except the warm lips and smooth tongue giving me such pleasure.

I've been kissed. A lot.

This wasn't kissing. It was sex of the mouth.

Groaning, I rose on tiptoe, loving the strong, steady way he cupped my head, fingering my hair as his tongue plunged deep. I savored it, licking and sucking, sharing each breath with him, certain I'd never experienced anything more exciting in my entire life.

And then it was over. He ended the kiss, yanked his hands back and put them on my shoulders. Spinning me around, he literally pushed me through the door, into the house. Muttering, "Go to bed before you freeze," he turned and stalked toward the open door, where the white curtains still whipped furiously in the night wind.

With one final, heated glance in my direction, he disappeared inside.

* * *

Is it hot in here, or is it just me?

I know my character descriptions are different than the book - I just wanted to give Bella a more voluptuous build, I think it fits her personality more. As for Edward he's dark and brooding, and I wanted his looks to match.

As always, thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you for all your reviews, mon petites.

You have humbled me to the very depths of my soul.

Your words of kindness have made me weep, and the best I can do is repay that kindness to you through my words.

Thank you again to edward's sanctuary and asterisk. I owe you gilded cherry blossoms.

**

* * *

  
**

_**Edward**_

She hadn't been lying. Her damn car wouldn't start.

When his unwanted houseguest had informed him this morning that there was something wrong with her bright, shiny and new-looking car, Edward had half suspected she was lying. The woman was nothing if not determined to stay here and dig up whatever secrets her professor had sent her to find. She'd started in on him while sipping the coffee he'd grudgingly shared with her before escorting her out the door.

He'd brushed aside her suggestion that she stay and tell him more about this house he'd inherited from his uncle.

He was more tempted than he'd wanted to let on, mainly because of the strange things he'd experienced lately. But a long restless night—during which he'd been tormented by just how amazing she'd tasted when he'd given in to his insane impulse and kissed her—had convinced him it wasn't worth the risk. Having her under his roof would be torture of the worst kind, since he just couldn't trust his own judgment these days.

He wanted her. He'd wanted her from the minute he saw her and now that he'd had her in his arms, he only wanted her more.

Aside from her physical attractions, he wanted some of that brightness—light and life—that seemed to envelop her like an aura.

But he didn't trust her. He trusted no one.

Besides, he wasn't entitled to her. He didn't deserve her.

So he'd convinced himself this morning that it was best to let her go. That he didn't need to know anything more about Seaton House than what he already knew. After all, this wasn't his home, it was merely a shelter. A refuge from the storm his life had become since he'd been released from the hospital in July. He didn't give a damn if Jimmy Hoffa were buried in the basement. He simply didn't want to hear about it.

Especially not from her . Bella, she'd insisted he call her. Pretty Bella—short for Charlotte, she'd told him with a disgusted groan—who cleaned up centerfold-quality stunning.

She'd distracted him much of the previous night already. For that, he supposed he ought to thank the woman. For once he hadn't gone to sleep with the sound of screams echoing in his head or the memory of the slow drip of blood down his face and the taste of it on his lips. The pain of the knife. Or the bullet.

No. He'd lain in his bed long into the night, picturing her silhouetted against the fire, her hair glinting gold under the flames. Her lips pursing out as she dropped her long-lashed eyes closed to savor the warmth. The red sweater plunging between those full breasts and the long legs highlighted by the tight jeans. And then later, wearing that windswept nightgown that had molded tightly against every inch of her body, barely concealing that body from his hungry eyes.

Of course, she hadn't been wearing any clothes in his dreams. She'd been naked and so had he as they'd explored every inch of one another. His long, deep, erotic dreams had made him wake up in the middle of the night with a hard-on that made it impossible to go back to sleep. So he'd prowled the house a little, as he often did, listening to the creaks and the groans, none of the sounds able to drive out the voice in his head that screamed murderer .

He'd finally forced himself to return to bed, managing to find a few restless hours of sleep that had, once again, starred his houseguest and had, once again, been X-rated.

One bad night had convinced him he didn't need her hanging around distracting his waking hours, too. But she hadn't been lying when she'd come back to the front door a few minutes ago—after she was supposed to already have driven away, off his mountain and out of his life.

Not quite believing her claims of car trouble, he'd grabbed the key out of her hand and gone to check for himself.

It was dead. Completely flat. He tried pumping the gas and twisted the key in the ignition again, but got absolutely no response.

"Dammit," he muttered, popping the hood and getting out the driver's side door. Ignoring the light drizzle of cold autumn rain, he went around to the front and lifted the hood. He had no idea what he thought he'd find by checking out the engine. What Edward knew about auto repair could be summed up in three letters—AAA.

Still he gave it a shot, figuring the irritating brunette on the porch would expect him to. He tinkered a little bit, knowing enough to see that the spark plugs were connected and the battery looked shiny and new.

"Are you sure you have gas in it?" he asked, swinging his head around to peer at her over his shoulder.

She nodded, not stepping out from her sheltered spot beneath the awning. Staying nice and dry. "Positive. I gassed up less than a hundred miles from here last night."

Knowing he'd exhausted the last remnants of his automotive knowledge, he slammed the hood down, pocketed the key and strode toward the house.

"No luck?" she asked, her big brown eyes wide and innocent as he joined her on the porch. Her lower lip was jutted out in a tiny pout of frustration.

He wanted to bite it.

He settled for grunting. "No."

"Gee…it was running just fine when I got here."

"Do you have an automotive service?" he asked, forcing himself to focus on the objective—getting her to leave—and not on her soft, delicate face and full red lips.

"I do."

Excellent.

She followed him back into the house. "But I can't call them."

"Why not?" he snapped.

She held up a small cellular phone. "No signal."

Not surprising. One would think that sitting on top of a mountain would give him access to some kind of cellular signal, but his own phone rarely worked. "Use the one in my office."

That pouty lower lip disappeared into her mouth.

"What?"

"I think the storm knocked out your phone service, too. I already tried."

Damn. Double damn.

Not taking her word for it, Edward went into the office and grabbed the receiver from its cradle. Nothing. Not even static.

Slamming it back down, he thrust an angry hand through his hair, flinching as the tip of his index finger scraped across his scar. Not from pain, but from the surprise he always felt whenever he was reminded of his close brush with death. And of the visible disfigurement that would always serve as a reminder of who he was and what he'd done.

The hospital had offered to have a plastic surgeon fix his scars up a little better. Edward had turned the offers down, figuring the world deserved to see the real man.

Bella obviously noticed his reaction. Immediately coming close to him—close enough for him to feel the heat of her breath on his throat and the suggestive scrape of her body against his—she gently reached up and pushed his hair back off his forehead.

Her touch was incendiary. Edward had been touched by plenty of nurses and doctors while recovering from the attack, but he couldn't recall ever feeling like one of them had started a flaming inferno on his skin.

This woman's touch did that. Her long, delicate fingers were cool and pale, so why they'd bring instant heat, he had no idea.

Or maybe he did.

"How did it happen?" she asked softly. She didn't have to say anything more for him to know she was referring to his scars.

"None of your damn business."

She tsked, not offended by his rudeness. "Are you always so unfriendly? That's not a very good personality trait for a hotel owner. Even Norman Bates was friendly."

"I'm not a hotel owner." Frowning, he added, "Besides, the jury's still out on the Norman Bates thing, isn't it?"

"I dunno, I've survived so far."

"The day's still young."

She snickered. The woman had one hell of a thick skin.

"It's a good thing you're not in this for the long haul," she said with a cheery smile. "Because the hospitality industry makes a big deal about having a positive attitude and I don't think you're cut out for it."

As if he'd want to be. "I'm crushed."

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I should know. My family's in the restaurant business—Swan's, on Taylor Avenue in Chicago. It's my second home…if I'm not at my apartment, I'm at the restaurant."

He assumed she had a point.

"Anyway, one thing I know, you have to have a certain type of look to succeed in the service industry."

"A look?" he asked, feeling dizzy from her jabbering.

"Yeah, you know, one that says you know how to smile."

His lips twitched. But he quickly pushed them down into a frown. "Do you ever shut up?"

"I'm the sixth child. No. I never shut up. I learned at a young age that if I want to be heard, I just have to keep on talking."

"Well you're certainly adept at it."

Shrugging, she asked, "What's your name?"

The sudden subject change startled him enough that he finally managed to tug himself away from her. Away from her breaths. Her stares. The brush of her lush breasts against his chest. The smile that had made him rock a little on his feet. "What?"

"Your name," she said as she slid down to sit on the arm of the leather couch. "Your first name."

"It's Edward."

"Well, Edward," she said, "it looks like we have a problem."

He quirked a brow. "We?"

"I have a problem with my car, and you have a problem with a houseguest."

"Okay. We. " Not seeing any way around it, he mumbled, "Get your stuff. I'll drive you down into town. You can call a repair shop from there."

"And then what, wander around some small Pennsylvania town with the crazy name of Trouble for hours waiting for my car to be towed and fixed?" Before he could answer, she added, "And is it really called that? The map wasn't mis-printed or anything?"

"Yes. Yes. And no."

Obviously zoning in on the answer she didn't like in that succinct response, she glared. "There's no reason I can't wait here. I'll stay out of your way. You won't even notice me."

Fat chance of that. She might as well have said he wouldn't notice it if a bird took up residence on his head. "Forget it."

Continuing as if he hadn't spoken, she added, "And by the time you drive me down the mountain, the phone service will probably already be back on, so there's really no need. We'll wait it out for a little while."

The woman just couldn't take no for an answer. "Are you hard of hearing?"

"No." She smiled, a gleam making those brown eyes sparkle. "Just used to having to be stubborn to get what I want ."

The way she emphasized the word want made him curious about just what she did want. When she licked her lips and shifted, his curiosity doubled. Crossing his arms and leaning back against his desk so he half sat on the edge of it, directly above her, he decided to ask her, "So what is it you want, Miss Swan?"

Her lips parted. As she licked at them, Edward could see a slow hint of color rising into her creamy cheeks.

"I don't want to be any trouble."

"Too late."

"But if I have to wait around for a couple of hours, I'd much rather do it here—where I can perhaps do some of the work I came all this way to do—rather than at some nasty, greasy garage in town."

It made sense. For her . Not for him.

As if seeing he was about to refuse, she hurriedly added, "I've come so far, and if I go back empty-handed, not only am I out the cost of the trip, but I won't get paid."

"What kind of employer is this professor of yours? It was his responsibility to make sure the arrangements were confirmed."

She sighed. "I know. But it's a private project. He's old and doesn't have much money. I certainly can't ask him to pay me for work I didn't do."

She sounded surprisingly sincere. And the hopeful look on her face made him curious enough to ask, "So what, exactly, is it you think you can do here in a few hours?"

That color rose a little higher and her gaze shifted. She stared somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, then looked down. He could almost feel her stare rolling over his body, from his neck, down his chest, across his lap.

If he didn't know better, he'd very much suspect Miss Swan wanted to inspect something other than the history of this house. When she lifted her eyes and boldly stared into his, he suspected that something was him .

Ridiculous. He was an embittered, scarred, surly man—as she seemed fond of pointing out. And she was a young, fresh, smart-mouthed student with a smile as bright as the sun and a figure that could make a grown man fall down and beg. She'd kissed him back last night simply because he'd startled her, or else she was grateful he'd let her stay.

He hadn't seen what he thought he'd seen. He was simply transferring his own heated attraction onto the woman, which only proved how jaded his experience—and solitude—had made him.

She finally cleared her throat. "I'm here to learn more about James Kilpatrick."

"Who?"

She looked surprised. "He owned this house and, with a partner named Robert Stubbs, turned it into a hotel back in the nineteen-thirties."

At last, a name he recognized. "Stubbs was my mother's grandfather."

Her surprise turned to shock. "Oh, God, I had no idea! The house has been in your family that long?"

"I suppose. I grew up out west and never even visited here until after my mother died. At that point, I decided I wanted to try to get to know her only brother better. My uncle Aro mentioned that the house had been handed down from his grandfather."

She slid from the arm of the couch, landing on the seat of the sofa, appearing deep in thought. "Fascinating. So you have a serious connection to Stubbs. I hadn't gone too far with him since Kilpatrick is the focus of the book." She looked up, beginning to smile, her expression excited. "You might be able to help me more than I thought. Stubbs knew Kilpatrick better than anyone."

Growing interested despite himself, he murmured, "Who was this Kilpatrick character again?"

She didn't even look up. "A serial killer who slaughtered fifteen women and buried them on the grounds of this estate."

Oh. Was that all.

"Are you joking?"

She shook her head. Edward slid down to sit beside her on the couch. "You're serious? This house was owned by a serial killer? Why have I never heard of him?"

She turned to fully face him, lifting one leg and tucking her foot beneath her cute ass, then draping her arm across the back of the couch. "That's what my professor's book is about. Twentieth century serial killers who somehow didn't make it in the history books. There was so much interest in the H. H. Holmes case because of that world's fair book last year, he thought now would be a good time to pursue this project, which he's been thinking of doing for years."

Stories about murderers and their crimes were not high on Edward's reading list, so he had no idea what book she was talking about. Nor could he spend much energy thinking about it, not when she was so animated, leaning forward until he caught the floral scent of her hair and the spicy sweetness of her skin. Her bent leg almost brushed his own, her knee about an inch from his thigh, and Edward had to resist the urge to drop his hand over it. To cup that leg, tug her over onto his lap and settle her astride him.

If he ever made love to this woman he wanted to do it just like that. With her naked, riding him, her hair loose and wild around her face and her nipples close enough to feast upon.

He shook his head hard, forcing himself to focus on her job rather than his wild fantasies of something that was not going to happen. "What is it you think you can find here at the house?"

She looked around the office, which had once been the mansion's library. The shelves still bulged with dusty hardback books—novels, resource periodicals, ledgers and journals. She didn't have to say a word. He instantly got her point.

"You really think you can find something useful?" he asked, finding himself a little caught up in her excitement, against his own better judgment.

She nodded, leaning closer, her eyes sparkling. "I do. Kilpatrick has been a real mystery. We know he did it—the bodies were found buried on the grounds along the cliffs and he was convicted of the murders. But no one ever knew why . And he was executed without ever even admitting his guilt."

Edward remained quiet, not sure how to respond to this truly unexpected revelation. He apparently didn't have to. Bella wasn't finished.

"Even his partner, your great-grandfather, could never offer any explanation as to why he might have done it. He was one of the star witnesses in the trial because he'd found one of Kilpatrick's kidnapping victims, who'd managed to escape, cowering in his office."

"So, what, you think you're going to find this Kilpatrick's secret journal, in which he revealed all of his dark, twisted thoughts?"

She grinned. "That'd be good." Shrugging, she added, "But no, I don't expect that. Your uncle's letters said there were boxes and boxes of old correspondence, newspapers, guest registries and scrapbooks. I have no idea what I might find in them, but I would like to look."

He didn't say anything for a moment, thinking of her request. He had work to do today—his publisher had been incredibly patient waiting for him to turn in his latest installment in his Guide to Southern Cities series. But they wouldn't wait forever. And he needed to get the project done, not only for his career but because he needed to put Charleston behind him in every way. He was practically recovered physically. It was time to work on his mental recovery, and getting back to work was a big part of it. Having her here for even an hour more would be a complete distraction.

He prepared to say just that. But somehow, something else came out of his mouth. "All right, Bella."

Her smile widened. And he immediately regretted not having better control of his vocal cords.

Quickly trying to do some damage control, he continued. "I'll give you a few hours to look through the boxes of papers in the storage room, and you can take what you need with you. But as soon as the phones come on, you call for repairs." Knowing he was about to wipe that smile off her face, he added, "And if we don't get phone service soon, come hell or high water I'm driving you into town this afternoon."

***

The phones came back on at noon. Going to tell her, Edward found Bella down in the basement storage room, where he'd left her this morning. She'd been sitting on the damp cement floor, surrounded by boxes, with papers strewn on every available surface, including her lap.

She'd looked so disappointed when he told her she could call for a tow truck that he nearly regretted making her leave. He quickly squelched the regret. Allowing her to stay would be a colossal mistake, not only because he needed to work, but also because she was too much of a damned temptation.

He just couldn't handle someone like her. Not now. Not yet.

He'd learned a life-altering lesson about letting himself be tempted and blinded by his attraction to a beautiful woman. While he didn't envision Bella pulling a knife or a gun on him like the blonde in Charleston, he wasn't ready to let himself put it to a test. He wouldn't be vulnerable again anytime soon, not to anyone.

Deep within himself he acknowledged the final reason he wouldn't let her stay. Because a part of him wanted her to. And he didn't deserve to get something he wanted.

He had blood on his hands. A woman was dead because of him.

No. He didn't deserve the kind of lightness and sunshine Bella Swan would bring into his world.

After leading Bella to the phone in the small, private kitchen, he returned to his office. The drizzle from this morning had turned into an afternoon deluge, but thankfully no thunder or lightning threatened to knock the power out again.

Still, the gray sky looked forbidding. The small amount of daylight oozing in through the heavy velvet draperies was weak and watery, bathing the room in shadows that even the strongest lamp could not banish. Since the power had been on this morning when he woke up, Edward hadn't bothered lighting a fire in the hearth, so he didn't even have that golden glow to bring the room to some acceptable level of illumination.

"Doesn't matter," he muttered as he sat at his desk and opened his laptop. Booting it up, he watched closely as the screen came to life. As the familiar blue desktop and icons appeared, he released a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding.

"Nothing," he whispered, laughing a little at how ridiculous he'd been last night to think he'd really seen the photograph he thought he'd seen on his computer.

But as he breathed deeply in relief, he caught a strong whiff of a strange, spicy odor. Recognizing that bitter orange scent he'd smelled before, his pulse began to pound in his temple. The thought of a sudden migraine—which was often signaled by strange smells—made him want to thrust his fist through the computer screen and howl.

He'd never suffered severe headaches in his life until Charleston. Then again, he'd never felt a knife slice his face open and a bullet tear through his chest before then, either.

"Not today," he muttered, remembering how he'd practically willed an attack away the night before.

This time, he was careful to close the laptop, not wanting any surprises when he opened his eyes. Then he lowered his lashes, leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his temples, willing the pounding away.

He waited for several long moments, concentrating on his breathing. Then, slowly raising his head, he opened his eyes.

The pain had eased. The computer was exactly as he'd left it. Everything was normal.

Except… "What the hell?" he mumbled, quickly rising from the chair. Feeling a little dizzy, he dropped a hand to the surface of the desk to steady himself. Then he looked toward the window again, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him.

Never taking his eyes off the bit of glass revealed between the heavy drapes, he moved toward it. Where he'd just seen…had thought he'd seen… "No. It was just a trick of the light."

There was no one there. He could still hear Bella on the phone in the next room. He hadn't seen a woman passing by the window, moving slowly as if drifting across the veranda.

He hadn't .

"Edward?"

Spinning around quickly, he let go of the desk, almost losing his balance. Before he even straightened up, Bella had darted across the room and slid an arm around his waist to steady him. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said. "Just fighting off a headache. Got up a little fast."

She could have let go. He was steady and perfectly capable of standing on his own. But she didn't. She stayed there, with one hand splayed on his back, the other on his stomach, her fingertips perilously close to the waistband of his pants.

His breathing grew choppy again, though not because of any phantoms in the windows or strange smells. It was entirely due to her —the warmth of her body pressed against his, the brush of her hair on his cheek.

Once again, her closeness reminded Edward how very much he missed human contact. Eroticism.

He wanted to drag her sweater off, and his shirt along with it. To lay her down on his desk and explore every inch of her body, feasting on those magnificent breasts, burying his face in her stomach. And lower.

"You're too thin," she murmured, her fingers tracing patterns on his hip. "Hard as a rock, but you look like you've been sick."

He said nothing, trying to work up the strength to tell her he was fine and she could let him go.

Or to just grab her hand and bring it to his mouth to kiss her palm and nibble her fingertips.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?"

Knowing she was asking about much more than his unsteadiness, he remained silent. He wasn't about to bring this beautiful woman into the hell of his reality. Better to have her think he'd been in some kind of accident than to know the truth about him. The dark, vicious truth. "I'm fine."

"Okay, keep your secrets," she murmured. Then, with a frown of regret, she stepped away. "But if you're feeling dizzy, maybe it's because of whatever incense you were burning in here."

Though he'd been about to step away from her, Edward suddenly couldn't move. His whole body rigid, he asked, "What did you say?"

"Well, I guess it was incense. There's a funny smell in here."

He grabbed her wrist, holding her tight. "You smell it?"

Nodding, she didn't tug away, didn't look at him as if he were crazy or hurting her, which he knew he might be.

He released her wrist. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Then she turned and looked around the room, sniffing again. "It's gone. But I would have sworn I smelled this sweet, nasty odor, like overripe fruit when I first came in the room."

"Oranges," he said, keeping his voice low and steady, not revealing just how much her words meant to him.

"Yes, that's it. Like orange blossoms dying on a tree."

Edward didn't know what to say. He couldn't say anything for a moment, so he merely stared at her.

For three months now, he'd been associating the strange smells with his migraines—figuring they were figments of his imagination, his brain's way of preparing him for the onslaught to come.

That was the easier explanation. The other was that he was simply losing his mind, going crazy out of guilt and rage. Smelling things that weren't there just as he'd been seeing and hearing things that weren't there.

But now this beautiful dark-haired woman was telling him she smelled it, too. He hadn't imagined it, his brain hadn't invented it. Which made him wonder just what the hell was going on in his house.

"Bella," he murmured, not even thinking about the words before he said them. "Why don't you stay awhile?"

* * *

The majority of this story is already written, it is just the editing and the updating that take me a while.


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